Sealed
by Lucinda the Maid
Summary: [Oneshot] One thoughtful evening, Miroku realizes the true essence of his curse and discovers a new one in the process. Implied MirSan. Rated for language.


My first attempt at the first-person POV, as well as my first time writing from a perspective other than Sango's. Tell me what you think, 'kay?

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**Disclaimer: **((holds up broken iPod)) I own this. And not Inu-Yasha. ((sighs)) Life can be so cruel...

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**Sealed**

Darkness.

An all-incapacitating, infinite mass often associated with the evening.

An untouchable, yet corporeal matter that envelops my body like the snow does a barren field.

A haunting, daunting presence following me wherever I go, stalking me silently from the void in my hand…

I hate it.

The Kazaana, I mean. For with the darkness comes a strange sense of comfort, a security that, while false and dynamic, is gratifying nonetheless. With the Kazaana comes… _death_.

I sigh and cross my arms, staring into said darkness, not really looking at anything but feeling my eyes search for something to lay their gaze on regardless. The night puts me on edge, despite the alleviating feeling that comes with the blackness, makes me think too much about things I'd rather not…

My eyes have found the target of their sight. I can barely make out the outline of the rosary beads encircling my palm, rippling from the breeze that emanates out from it, that breeze that will someday become a full-blown gale and consume me…

The staff I grip in my other hand makes contact with my head, the pain a distraction from my harrowing thoughts. I shouldn't think so much; it only brings discomfort in the end. Thanks a lot to the nighttime for making me do so. I hate you, too.

There's that sigh again. I find that I'm groaning almost as much as I'm thinking lately. It becomes rather insipid after quite some time, though I suppose the tedium of life is appealing as opposed to being drawn into my…

For the love of the Buddha, Miroku, stop it! Stop it, now! I bonk myself over the head again, though I know somewhere inside that, despite my desperate strikes, I'll never stop thinking about _it_.

I'm afraid, as one could imagine.

Fear is not forgotten easily.

_Death_ is not forgotten easily.

And so I remember.

And so I'll have that many more lumps on my crown tomorrow morning.

"Nn…"

What's this?

A voice?

A _woman's_ voice?

And, what's more, it's one that I know well…

One of a female near and dear to me…

I clench my eyes shut—now I'm met with just that much more darkness. I refuse to look at her, at _Sango_. I refuse to think about her. I _refuse_ to crawl over there and…

My legs are moving.

Damn it, Miroku, you submissive bastard.

I reach the sleeping beauty and resist the urge to touch her. She's even lovelier in slumber. There's something about the way her hair falls over her face, the way her soft lips are parted ever-so-slightly, that's just intriguing; _irresistible_.

She's so beautiful I can hardly keep still.

She's asleep, but she's _still_ tempting me, daring me to caress her butt or say something perverted.

She appears so ignorant, and yet, being a taiji-ya, she's forever vigilant, always watching, even with her eyes closed, always listening, though the sounds of her dreams drown out those of my ragged breaths, always willing to foil my attempts at a grope, assisted by a smack from her Hiraikotsu and a harsh, "Sukebei houshi!"

Somehow, even her insults are endearing.

My head finds its way into my hands, and I feel the rough rosary there press into my forehead. Just as I've admitted I'm afraid of my Kazaana, I'll confess to something else now; I love her. Buddha, how I do! I don't know why or for how long, but it's true; it's there. It's a feeling that's wormed its way into my bosom that makes my insides feel as though they're blossoming. While the seasons around me change with time, it's always spring here in my heart. The flower that is my love continues to bloom and re-bloom and gets that much prettier with each subsequent reopening.

But, of course, even the most exquisite of flowers must wilt at some point.

I fear that I've watered it too much and, despite my best efforts at keeping it alive, killed it thanks to my excessive care.

I love her _too_ much.

My view shifts back to my right hand, at the brilliant purple cuff that rivals that rivals the color of my kesa. They're not so different, my Kazaana and Sango; after all…

…I'm cursed by them both.

Yes, this brilliant, breath-taking woman is my greatest affliction, whether or not she is aware of it, and it is her that rules my life—and my heart—above all else.

But her curse doesn't have to be that way. If Sango and I had met under circumstances different from those of hunting down and killing Naraku, her company would have been considered by me a blessing. We would have settled down, begun a family, been happy for the rest of our lives and longer…

But, in this instance, we can't. Should I wed her before Naraku dies, I will be annihilated by my Kazaana, leaving Sango to grieve, to care for our children alone, to mourn for the rest of _her_ life and longer…

And there I will be in the crater where I ended my existence, a once-satisfied husband bearing with me the curse of making my significant other upset, weighing heavily on my conscience even in death.

But wouldn't it also be a sin for me to die right now and never let Sango know how I feel? Isn't it greedy for me to leave her questioning my desires and intents?

It's a dilemma.

And such is the curse of Sango.

One curse caused by the other.

I look at the Kazaana again, my only thought being, _it's your fault._ If this damn thing would go away, then I'd be free to tell her, to hold her, to cherish her, to _love_ her…

Perhaps this is why I am truly accursed.

As much as I long for her, the Kazaana erects an invisible barrier between us, binds me to my inevitable fate with impalpable chains, staves me off though the flower inside of me screams for the nourishment only she can give.

My fist tightens.

That Naraku is a genius.

A bastard, yes, but a genius.

When the Kazaana was first bestowed—no, _forced_—onto my family fifty years ago, it had been due to the fact that my grandfather—my sleazy, lecherous grandfather—was so attracted to the courtesan Naraku had disguised himself as. This curse was caused as a result of his womanizing and I refuse to let it end with mine.

That is why she must never know.

I must quell the wild cries of my flower for the sun, _my_ sun, for just a little longer.

I'll allow both of my curses to flourish, to continue to tempt and torture.

I'll bear.

I'll pull through.

For you, dear Sango, I'll do whatever I must.

I yearn for the day that the Kazaana is gone and I can finally live out that future with you that, for now, is merely a hopeless, desperate dream of a doubly-cursed man.

Unfortunately, this time is not now.

But soon.

Soon I'll be free of my curses.

But until then, my lips, hand, fate, and love…

…are sealed.

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**End fic.** Review, please! 


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